It’s 3:09 AM and I am still awake for reasons unknown. I am going to write something unprecedented for your viewing pleasure. Have you noticed that every month or so there is somebody who write a letter to their future self or to their loved one to be read after they shuffle off their mortal coil? Those things go viral! I thought I would join the trend just to be a dick. I too want to go viral, safely without getting an STD. Every day we are given so many reasons to leave behind our pettiness and live life more fully. Yet we, myself included, spend all this time going through the motions and pretending we are better than we think we are. So with that in mind here is my letter
To My 65 Year old Self
Dear 65 years old MrMary
I cannot imagine what it feels like to overcome yet another statistic. You dodged being incarcerated, having a child out of wedlock and that dying from a serious crack addiction narrative which was part of your social contract. Now you managed to live till 65. Of course, living so long comes with a price. I’m guessing that at 65 your prostate is enlarged and to add insult to injury no chicks want to fuck a 65 year old. Correction: no hot chick wants to fuck a 65 year old living from pension check to pension check. But it’s all good though. I imagine watching porn is less of an investment. You can turn it off after the guy delivers the pizza, because that’s probably all the thrill you can take at your age:food. Food makes the pain of loss go down easier, am I right?
I’m sure your glad I am not wasting words telling you trite platitudes like everyone else does at this point in their letter. You know what I mean:
- Life is messy
- Just because I did that girls gone wild video, I’m still a good person
- All the struggling was worth it,
- What doesn’t kill you make’s you stronger.
That last one is my favorite, I always wanted to ask a soldier who survived being wounded in the genitals how he felt stronger having to stick a pair of truck nuts down his trouser to feel like a man again?
We learned long ago that life isn’t beautiful or alluring or sad or painful. Life just is. It continues on long after we’ve died. Sad, alluring, painful and happy are just terms we apply to situations that either benefit us or not. When we feel pain life is painful. When we feel happy life is happy. When we feel itchy from having a bad case of the crabs life is trying.
Right now I’m 32, and I like to think I live as free as I can. I have no box of pictures or mementos of times past. A hundred years after the last person to have seen me alive (hopefully a blond nurse that like to sponge bathe me) dies there will be no trace that I ever walked the earth. So why bother? Did I get to do all the stuff on my sarcastic bucket list? Did I finally open a jewelry store named pearl necklace? Did I get to put that All persons fictitious disclaimer sticker (All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental) in the inside cover of all the hotel bibles I stayed in? Did I ever ask an effeminate tattoo artist to draw the map of Hawaii on my chest, ya know for shits and giggles? Or how about the books store named Stacked with all the aspiring voluptuous women who make up for their illiteracy with over the top enthusiasm?
I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say. Looking at these other people’s letters to themselves there is always some sort of pep talk about working hard, and taking chances because they pay off. Only people who didn’t struggle much say that. You remember the time there was that gun fight downstairs in the lobby and our pops only walked away with a piece of a bullet in his foot and his life. I would have loved for those people then to come in with a pep talk about life being hard and taking chances.
I wonder if I had a family. I mean that would change things. If I did you are probably reading this in a sanitized home where you will die in the care of strangers. If not you probably live in an old apartment hopefully not far from the beach where the sound of the waves lapping gentling over the sand , sounds like a second heart beat to your ears. I remember and you may too, when we were little and used to think that if we put our ear to everyone’s chest it would sound like the ocean, because it always felt so hollow and empty there?
But you know, I have nothing nice to say and I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I only hope that despite your memory fading, you remember the nights you spent up late: listening to everyone snore and sleep. You weren’t so worried about what tomorrow would bring and you were not distraught by what the past had taken from you. You just wanted to get into it already and get things over with so you can rest. I have always found it strange that for an eternity before we found ourselves here we were non existent. For an eternity after we pass we will be non-existent. Yet we hold onto the few scenes that comprise a human life? That like trying to prolong the feeling of a single orgasm. Well not really but imagine walking around with your face contorted like your having an orgasm all the time: when you withdrawing money from the bank, where you are Church shouting those ejaculatory pronouncements of faith. You could never walk around a playground, everyone would think you were an undercover catholic priest.
Don’t take any wooden nickel
“You will remember this when all else fades, this moment, here, together, by this well. There will be certain days, and certain nights, you’ll feel my presence near you, hear my voice. You’ll think you have imagined it and yet, inside you, you will catch an answering cry. On April evenings, when the rain has ceased, your heart will shake, you’ll weep for nothing, pine for what’s not there. For you, this life will never be enough, there will forever be an emptiness, where once the god was all in all in you.”
― John Banville, The Infinities